The Sex Poem
by Apple Annie
Summary: Jo challenges Blair to write a sex poem. A follow up to my story "Blair and Jo's Amorous Adventure." Set after they have finished graduate school and are working jobs in the real world. This story is gay.


" _The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars."_

"Don't you just love that, Blair?"

"Kerouac? Not really a fan, Jo."

"C'mon, Blair! How can you, an artist, not love that?"

"Exploding spiders? Eew."

"The spiders aren't exploding, the mad people are, like fabulous roman candles!"

"The imagery, Jo. I don't like to think of spiders in conjunction with the stars. Ruins stars for me. I say again, _eew_!"

"I just don't get how you can't love The Beats, Blair. _I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked._ "

"Not Ginsberg! Please, Jo!"

"Whadda' got against Ginsberg?"

"Aside from the fact that he looks like a toad with a beard? All his poems are about sex."

"No they're not, Blair! How is _Howl_ about sex? It's a cry against capitalism, exploitation, repression and subjugation!"

"A cry against capitalism? Really? What's wrong with capitalism?"

"Oh, sorry, I forgot. Capitalism, exploitation, repression and subjugation are in Warner Industries mission statement, right?"

"Hey!"

"Well?"

"Daddy's company is very ethical! Besides, what's that got to do with The Beat Poets and Allen Ginsberg's obsession with sex?"

"You're killing me here, Blair!"

"Yeah, I know."

"I saw that look."

"What look?"

"Don't act all innocent! You flashed me you're flirty look! I should hit you with a pillow for that!"

"Hey!"

"You think Ginsberg is obsessed with sex because you're obsessed with sex."

"I won't deny that, Jo."

"Ha! As I suspected. You know what? I bet you could write a good sex poem if you put you're mind to it."

"Maybe. But, for sure, there would be no spiders in it!"

"Do it, Blair. I challenge you!"

"Yeah, because you know it would be all about you!"

"It better be!"

"My art is visual, Jo. I'm not a poet. You know that."

"I still think you could probably come up with something amazing, Blair."

"You sound as if you _want_ me to write a sex poem."

"I do."

"Well, nothing's going to be written now. As a matter of fact, if we don't get going soon, we'll both be late for work."

"We could risk it. I mean, I'm totally down with inspiring your erotic muse this morning."

"Jo… you are _so_ bad."

* * *

Blair sauntered into Warner Tower looking every inch the young professional. Her morning distraction with Jo was not far from her mind. _She wants me to write a sex poem. That's so cute. Impossible, but cute. It feels nice to know she thinks so highly of my artistic abilities. But, of course I can't write poetry. Ridiculous!_

"Good morning, Ms. Warner!" Barney, the security guard, chirped merrily.

"Good morning, Barney," Blair smiled and nodded.

"Excuse me, Ms. Warner?" the lobby clerk hailed her. "Your father has requested that you drop by his office as soon as you arrive."

"Thanks, Rhonda," Blair responded pleasantly. _"Probably something from corporate about the charity event,"_ Blair thought as she entered the executive elevator. She pushed the button for the 73rd floor and watched as the numbers lit her way.

 _Lights pulsating, cascading alternating flashing…_

She entered her father's office.

"Good morning, Daddy," she greeted the CEO of Warner Industries. "What can I do for you?"

"Ah, Princess, at last!" David Warner rose and gave his daughter a warm hug.

"Is this about the charity event I've been organizing? I already cleared everything with legal, so corporate can just stuff it if they think they can try and pull the plug again!"

"Blair, Blair, Blair… relax," David laughed. "Nothing like that. I just need my wonderful, talented, artistic daughter's opinion, is all!"

"Wow, my artistic side seems to be getting a lot of love this morning!"

"I'm sorry?" David looked confused.

Blair blushed a little as she remembered her morning with Jo.

"Nothing, Daddy. What do you need?"

"Some Georgia O'Keeffe paintings are coming up for sale from a private collector. I want your opinion."

"Flowers or skulls?"

"Oh, I uh, don't know. Does it make a difference?" her father gave her a blank stare.

"That's just it. You don't know anything about art. Why would you be interested in purchasing paintings?" Blair questioned.

"I thought I'd put them on extended loan to the Met or Guggenheim for the world to enjoy, if you think they're worth it!" David replied jauntily.

"Oh Daddy, you are so thoughtful! I was just telling Jo this morning how ethical your company is."

"She was questioning my ethics?" his eyebrows rose in surprise.

"No! Nothing like that," Blair waved him off. "Just one of our silly discussions that wouldn't make sense to anyone but the two of us."

David nodded. He had certainly been around enough Blair and Jo discussions to know the truth of this. He let it go.

"So anyway," he began again, "I was made aware of these paintings availability through back channels, shall we say. They haven't been put up for auction yet. And I thought, who better to make a determination on them than my beautiful, artistic daughter?"

"Is there the possibility of a private sale?" Blair queried.

"There is," David affirmed. "The owners wish discretion and confidentiality. They don't want it out there that they may be considering selling."

"How intriguing," she responded. "Just who are these people?"

Her father walked over to his desk, pulled out a card from the top drawer and handed it to her.

"Daddy, no!" Blair gasped.

David nodded his head. "You're expected this afternoon."

Blair entered the elevator down to her office with a bounce in her step.

"Good morning, Jill," she smiled at her assistant.

"I take it you've seen your father?" Jill rose and handed her a folder. "His office called a couple times for you this morning."

"Yes, thank you. I have to make a phone call, so I'll be in my office."

"Very well," Jill shrugged. "But you told me to remind you that you wanted to go over the proposals from the London office this morning. That's the folder in your hand, by the way. I've already included my notes."

"Oh yeah," Blair bit her lip as she opened the folder and glanced at it briefly. "I'll get to this after my phone call."

"You're the boss," Jill sighed as she gave her a questioning look.

"Jill?"

"Blair?"

"I'll get to it, okay?"

"Okay. I'm just trying to help you out," Jill returned to her desk. "Looking out for you."

"I appreciate it, Jill," Blair smiled sweetly. "Thank you so much. I'd be lost without you."

"Just so you remember that," Jill pushed her glasses up on her nose.

"Cheeky!" Blair teased her as Jill peered up over her spectacles.

The young woman was the same age as Blair, but with a distinctly different style. Her auburn hair was swept up into a businesslike bun. Her manner of dress was, likewise, very businesslike. Blair had hired her herself. Jill was from England originally. But she was college educated in the States with an MBA from Berkeley. Yet, it wasn't her stellar education or professional demeanor that had caught Blair's attention. It was her self-assurance and sense of humor that had made her stand out. Blair knew this would be someone who would keep her on track and not be overly impressed with the trappings of being the executive assistant to the daughter of the CEO. She was looking for someone who wouldn't be afraid to stand up to her and Jill fit that bill perfectly. There was something about her, despite her diminutive stature, which emanated personal power. She had an almost classical beauty, Blair had noticed, despite her efforts to downplay her looks. Besides all that, she really liked her accent.

 _Mystery slides hidden wrapped in dimensions of plain sight…_

She shut her office door, made a beeline for the phone and began punching out numbers. One ring, two rings… _c'mon pick up already!_

"Jo Polniaczek," came an abrupt reply.

"Jo! Jo! You'll never guess what happened this morning!"

"Blair? I just saw you, like, an hour ago. You've got to quit calling me at work all the time!"

"I d _o not_ call you at work all the time. I've got my own job to do, you know?"

"Yeah," Jo sighed resignedly. "What is it?"

"I've got to go over to a house this afternoon and look at some paintings for my father."

"So?"

"So… you'll never guess whose house it is!"

"You're right, I won't."

"Try and guess!"

"Blair, I'm at work. Work, as in this is how I get my paycheck. I don't have time for this."

"C'mon, Jo," she could feel Blair's pout through the phone. "Play along."

"Okay," she capitulated with a sigh. "Whose house is it?"

"I can't tell you," Blair's voice was hushed and mysterious.

There was a long silence before Jo responded in a slow, deliberate tone. "Blair, I'm going to have to kill you. You know this, right?"

"You have to come with me!" Blair blurted out excitedly.

Jo pondered the constant conundrum that was Blair.

"Why?" she asked, even as she mentally kicked herself for doing so.

"Because they're Georgia O'Keeffe's, Jo, that's why!"

"You mean, Georgia O'Keeffe as in…"

"Yes, Jo!" Blair replied exuberantly. "Georgia O'Keeffe! Originals! Paintings! From a private collection… maybe never seen before!"

"Damn," Jo exhaled reverently, revealing more of an interest than she had intended.

"Then it's settled!" Blair pronounced. "I'll send a company car for you at two."

"Whoa! Nothing's settled! I didn't say I'd go! We've got an annual report due here, Blair! I'm kind of busy!"

"You're a supervisor over there, Jo," Blair pointed out. "What's the point of being management if you can't come and go as you please?"

"Just a little thing called responsibility," Jo countered.

"It's Georgia O'Keeffe, Jo. She may not be a Beat Generation artist, but didn't she foreshadow the Beats by rejecting society and moving to New Mexico to paint skulls in the desert? Vast and empty and untouchable…"

"Yeah, yeah, but…" Jo stopped and thought. _Georgia O'Keeffe's? Maybe never seen before? Damn me for having a rich girlfriend. So much temptation!_ "Okay. Two o'clock. I'll just tell everyone I'm taking a late lunch."

"That's my girl!" Blair hung up immediately.

Jo stuck her head outside her office into the beating heart of the Bronx Youth Alternative Center.

"Um, Terrell? Theresa?" she called. Two employees approached her.

"I'm going to take a late lunch today. Work through 'til about two, okay?"

"Whatever you want, Boss," Theresa nodded.

"Works for me," Terrell affirmed.

As Jo shut the door to her office, her coworkers glanced at each other.

"Blair?" Theresa ventured.

"I guess we'll know if a gray Mercedes Sedan pulls up out front," Terrell rolled his eyes dramatically.

* * *

"Ooh, girl, I knew it," Terrell nudged Theresa. "Look out that window."

Theresa turned her glance through the large windows at the front of the Center towards the street. A gray Mercedes had stopped outside.

"Society girlfriend's car," Terrell winked.

"I think it's sweet, Terrell," Theresa smiled.

"What? That our boss has a foot in both worlds?" Terrell glanced at her incredulously.

"Yeah, actually," Theresa glared back at him. "I mean, she comes from us, but she's found true love in another world. It's like Romeo and Juliet."

"You mean Juliet and Juliet," Terrell nudged her as he grinned.

"You only wish you were so lucky," Theresa narrowed her eyes at him.

"True that!" Terrell nodded. "But, if I could find a Romeo on the other side, I might just disappear into that world. I don't know why Jo keeps coming back here with an uptown girlfriend like that!"

"That's what makes her special," Theresa offered. "She could leave, forget the gay youth of the Bronx, but she doesn't."

As Jo's office door opened, both her assistants went silent. She started for the front door then, suddenly, stopped. She turned to them.

"I know what you guys are thinking," she eyed them both.

"We ain't thinking nothing," Terrell shook his head before continuing. "Least not about your uptown girlfriend or the like."

"Yeah, okay, it's Blair's car," Jo sighed. "I'm going to meet Blair for lunch."

"I think that's so sweet, she sends a car for you," Theresa smiled.

"Not my business anyway," Terrell rolled his eyes. "You go have a good time! We'll be just fine down here… in the Bronx… while you sip Champaign at The Four Seasons!"

"It's not like that, Terrell," Jo defended herself. "I've got to help her with a business decision."

"Uh-huh," Terrell rolled his eyes again.

"Lay off, Terrell," Theresa scolded him.

"Lay off, Blair, at any rate," Jo spoke defensively. "She's alright."

"Girl, she is _more_ than alright," Terrell eyed her. "She is _hot_! And that's from a gay man's perspective!"

"She is all that," Theresa nodded, "and more."

"Enough of this," Jo began to blush slightly. "The car's waiting. I gotta' go. Be back in an hour!" She proceeded through the front door.

"The car's waiting," Terrell flashed a glance at Theresa.

"Be quiet, you," Theresa smiled as she returned to her desk.

Jo sighed as she exited the Center. _Had_ she forgotten where she came from? She had merited a full scholarship to Columbia and had completed her Master's Degree while Blair attended Law School. After graduation, they had decided to live together in a Manhattan Brownstone owned by Warner Industries, much to Jo's chagrin, as neither was paying rent! But, Blair _had_ agreed to live in student housing while they attending Columbia, so turn-about was fair play, she guessed. Plus, she wanted to live with Blair and Blair would not live in an apartment that they could actually afford! So, here she was, an Ivy League educated professional living in a Manhattan brownstone with a society girlfriend about to enter a Mercedes to be chauffeured somewhere.

Come to think of it, there were just too many drivers in Blair's world! There was her Mother's driver, Jimmy, whom she liked and could relate too because of his Bronx background. But, since Blair had taken a position with her father's company, there were so many drivers that Jo simply could not keep track! Not only that, many of them didn't want to make conversation. It was as if she was the rich girl in the back seat of the car being driven around by the working class and they didn't want to upset the balance.

She was relieved when Pete exited the driver's side and opened the door for her. She liked Pete. He would, at least, talk to her. He was a regular guy.

"Hey, Jo!" he smiled as he held the door.

"Hey, Pete," Jo returned his smile as she entered the car. "Where we going today?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," he shrugged as he turned to her from behind the steering wheel. "I've just got an address. Blair says to meet her there."

They drove to a very ritzy Manhattan neighborhood and pulled up in front of an expensive townhouse in the Italian Renaissance style. Blair was there to meet them.

"Okay, so Jo, you're my assistant: an art expert!"

"No I'm not!"

"To get in here, you are. These people are richer than rich!"

"You mean richer than you."

"Maybe. I mean… I don't keep track of that sort of thing."

"Since when?" Jo scoffed.

"They're certainly _old_ money" Blair ignored her comment as she took her arm. "These folks have God's unlisted number."

"Blair," Jo looked at her skeptically and shook her head. "Who are they?"

"You'll see," came Blair's cryptic reply.

A butler opened the door as they bounded up the steps. It seemed they _were_ expected.

"Ms. Warner," he nodded slightly. "And this would be?" he eyed Jo suspiciously.

"My assistant," Blair lied. "An art expert."

"Indeed," he sniffed as he led them inside.

Jo's mind reeled. _Holy cow! I thought Blair was rich! Look at this place! It's like a palace!_

"The items for your inspection are this way," the butler led them up a winding staircase and into a huge room with vaulted ceilings and skylights. Bookcases seemingly went from floor to ceiling; except for the fact that there were portraits hung above them.

"I'll leave you to your business," the butler shut the door.

"Holy cow, Blair," Jo exclaimed as she gazed upwards to the portraits. "That's when he was…"

"Uh-huh," Blair acknowledged.

"And that's when she was…"

"Uh-huh," Blair wrapped her arm in Jo's. "That's why I couldn't tell you on the phone."

"This is like American Royalty," Jo looked up in wonder. "Amazing!"

"Yep."

"Hey, look at this, Blair!" Jo noticed a family photograph on an end table. "I remember this from history books!"

As she went to pick it up, Blair called out.

"No! Jo! We can't touch anything! We're just here to appraise the artwork!"

"Oh, right," Jo nodded. "So where is it?"

Blair had already scoped out the paintings. They were on two easels at the back of the library, lit by a single overhead light each.

"They're flowers, Jo!" Blair stated breathlessly. "Let's get a closer look."

Blair linked her fingers with Jo's as they approached the paintings.

"They're beautiful," she whispered.

"They are at that," Jo agreed as she gazed at the swirling brush strokes and bold, intense colors.

Blair was transfixed.

 _Curvy, lithe, overlapping colors folding into a winding river that bursts into lavender, the essence of the flower…_

"Oh hey, kitty," Jo noticed a cat sitting on a chair to one side of the paintings. Its coloring so much matched the room that it almost blended in completely. She reached over to pet it. The cat hissed, then screamed and struck out at her.

"Shit!" Jo quickly shook her hand as the cat ran off.

"Jo!" Blair was alarmed.

"I know, right?" Jo looked at her bleeding hand.

"I think you got blood on one of the paintings!" Blair looked closer.

"Yeah, and it hurt a little bit, too!" Jo gave her an annoyed glance.

"I'm serious, Jo! These are Georgia O'Keeffe originals and I think your blood is on one!"

"Seriously?" Jo was suddenly worried.

Blair looked closely at the painting. "It's hard to tell. It could be blood… or paint."

"How do we know for sure?"

Blair lifted her finger and touched the painting.

"Blair! You can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"Because in all the museums they say _don't touch the paintings_!"

"But we have to know," Blair persisted.

Just then, the butler returned.

"Is there a problem?" his eyes grew wide as he viewed Blair's finger on the painting.

"Of course not!" Blair glared at him like a rich girl eyeing an impudent servant. "I just like to get as close to an artwork as I can to feel it's energy and authenticity!"

"Touching of the paintings is not allowed!" he persisted haughtily.

"And I told already told you that I didn't touch it," she stared him down. "I was just getting close to it! You are dismissed!"

"Very well then, Madam," he huffed as he turned and left the room.

"I don't think he bought it, Blair," Jo worried.

"He's an idiot servant. I don't care what he thinks!" Blair was completely dismissive.

"Whoa! Earth to Blair," Jo was upset by her demeanor. "Come back to me, Babe!"

Blair looked at her and smiled sheepishly.

"Sorry, Jo. I, uh…"

"Went into full-on rich girl mode! I haven't seen that for years!"

"Give me a break. He deserved it."

"Yeah, but the way you talked to him! Blair, I've never heard you be anything but polite and friendly to your Mom's staff."

"I have plenty of experience with how my old friends used to talk to their servants, remember? I was just channeling their snobbishness to get rid of him."

"I hope that's all that was."

"Besides, he's a complete asshole in case you hadn't noticed!"

"You got me there," Jo admitted. "So… was it blood?"

"No, thank God. Paint."

"Meanwhile, you actually touched a Georgia O'Keeffe!"

"And you actually touched a Siamese cat. What were you thinking?"

"How was I to know it was an attack cat?" Jo defended herself.

"It's breeding, Jo, really," Blair gave her a disbelieving glance.

"What's wrong with Siamese cats?" Jo looked baffled.

"Have you _seen_ "Lady and the Tramp"?"

"Jesus, Blair! That's a racist stereotype of Asians from an unenlightened time!"

"Not of Asians, Jo, of Siamese Cats!"

"So it's a racist stereotype of cats?"

"No! I mean yes! I mean… no. Siamese cats are just mean is all! Everyone knows that, Jo."

" _Catist_ ," Jo gave her a little smile.

"Very funny. You're funny. Now let me see your hand," Blair reached out for Jo's injured extremity. "Here," she reached into her purse, pulled out a tissue and wrapped it around the gash.

"Thanks, Blair," Jo looked at her sweetly. "So what about the paintings? Are you going to tell your Dad to buy 'em?"

"What do you think? Of course I am! Oops!" she suddenly exclaimed. "That reminds me: Daddy wants us to join him for dinner tonight!"

"Tonight?" Jo questioned apprehensively.

"Yes. He says he doesn't get to see enough of you. Isn't that sweet?"

"But, Blair, the Yankees are playing the Red Sox tonight. I wanted to kick back, pop a beer, watch the game on TV and just relax, not meet your father at some hoity-toity restaurant for dinner," Jo complained.

"Oh, didn't I mention? He wants to take us to dinner at Yankee Stadium. I think he might have said something about getting a hotdog and a beer."

"Wait a minute," Jo's demeanor brightened. "Your Dad is inviting us to sit in the Warner box at Yankee Stadium for dinner?"

"I know, right? Not the greatest invitation I've ever received. But there are some big wigs from Tokyo visiting and they're huge baseball fans, so Daddy thought it would be a good idea to take them there. Plus, he knows you love the Yankees, so I guess he thought you might enjoy it."

Jo was momentarily speechless.

"So, you want to go?" Blair smiled at her knowingly.

"Yes," Jo grinned from ear-to-ear.

"Uh-oh," Blair whispered.

"What? I said I'd go?" Jo was confused.

"No. That's not it," Blair's voice was hushed. "Don't look now, Jo, but that racist cat is back."

Jo glanced behind her and saw the cat stalking them with a hostile posture.

"No sudden movements, Blair. That cat is a violent predator."

"Now who's the _catist_?" Blair joked.

They were both shocked as they watched the cat suddenly stop and defecate on the rug.

"Eew!" Blair instinctively grabbed Jo as the animal hissed at them.

"That cat is completely psycho!" Jo declared as the feline ran off.

"What do we do now, Jo?"

"We get out of here before it comes back!" Jo suggested.

"But it crapped on the rug, Jo. We can't just leave that there in this beautiful library."

"Why not? That's the butler's job, right?"

"But what if he thinks we did something?"

"Blair," Jo gave her a quizzical look, "he may be an asshole, but he's not going to think either one of us took a dump on the rug."

"No, silly," Blair shook her head. "What if he thinks we did something to the cat which made it crap on the rug?"

"Blair," Jo rolled her eyes, "everyone knows you can't _make_ a cat take a dump, even a snooty, stuck-up butler!"

"I don't want to do anything to mess up the sale for my father, Jo. What if the butler tells his employers that we were mean to the cat or something?"

"This is ridiculous," Jo was becoming exasperated. "He already caught you fingering a priceless painting. If he's going to be problem, I think he already has cause to be."

"All the same, we can't leave _that_ on the rug!" Blair reached into her purse, pulled out another tissue and handed it to her girlfriend. "Go pick it up, Jo."

Jo gave her an incredulous stare. "No way, Blair! _You_ pick it up!"

"You know I can't do that!" Blair was equally as incredulous.

"Then it stays on the rug," Jo shrugged. "This one's on you."

"Nicely put," Blair grimaced as she gazed at the offending object. She steeled herself as she gathered all her courage. She quickly snatched it with her tissue.

"Eew! Eew! Eew! It's all warm and soft! What do I do now?" she was practically hysterical.

Jo was laughing out loud at this point. "Don't look at me!"

"Ahem," the butler cleared his throat as he entered the room. "Have the Madams finished their inspection?"

Blair thrust the tissue behind her back and stood shoulder to shoulder with Jo. The butler eyed them distrustfully.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

"Nope! No!"

Blair and Jo spoke at once.

"We're done here, right?" Jo glanced at Blair.

"Right!" Blair agreed.

As they began to follow him out of the room, Jo nodded to a potted plant. Blair looked at her questioningly. Jo jerked her head towards the plant again.

"Oh!" Blair mouthed as she dropped the cat poop into it. As she passed the butler on the way out, she stealthily snuck the tissue into his coat pocket.

"Please extend to your employer our gratitude," she smiled sweetly at the haughty servant. He did not reply, choosing a barely perceptible nod instead.

"Oh my God, Blair," Jo laughed as they reached the safety of the back seat of the car. "You slipped that cat crap tissue into his pocket!"

Blair was busy dousing her hands with hand sanitizer.

"You should've dropped the whole thing in there!" Jo continued.

"Then he would have known it was us, for sure," Blair explained as she continued to scrub her hands. "This way, he'll be smelling something all afternoon and not know where it's coming from. Or, even better, he'll have to wipe his stuck-up nose, reach into his pocket for a tissue and…"

"Blair, that's so devious," Jo was impressed. "You may have missed your calling as an evil mastermind."

"This is news to you?" Blair gave her a sideways grin. "At any rate, I never want to do _that_ again. Just disgusting!"

"I'm proud of you, Blondie," Jo nodded with appreciation. "Meanwhile, I gotta' get back to work, without having had lunch, I might add."

"No worries there," Pete turned to her from the front seat and handed her a deli bag. "I got a bite while you two were in there. I figured you might be hungry, so I picked up an extra sandwich!"

"You are my hero, Pete!" Jo smiled with gratitude.

"Eh, no big deal," he said as he turned onto Lexington Avenue. "You look like a corned beef on rye girl to me. Am I right?"

"You must've read my mind," Jo replied.

"Jo?" Blair raised an eyebrow.

"What?" Jo gazed at her as she hungrily bit into her sandwich.

"You can't very well have corned beef for lunch and a hotdog for dinner."

"Why the hell not?"

"Your arteries, for one thing!" Blair gave her a chastising glare.

"Ah, you're only young once, right, Pete?" Jo continued as she took another bite.

"That's the way I see it," Pete agreed.

"I'm obviously outnumbered here," Blair shook her head disapprovingly. She reached over with a tissue to wipe a drop of mustard from Jo's cheek.

"Hey!" Jo complained.

"I just don't want you going back to work with mustard on your face!"

"Meanwhile, I've seen what you do with your tissues! How do I know where that thing's been? No thank you!"

"Really, Jo," Blair huffed.

"Warner Tower," Pete announced.

"Okay, so I'll see you at the game tonight?" Blair leaned in and gave Jo a quick kiss.

"You know it!" Jo grinned.

"She's quite the girl," Pete mentioned as he pulled back into traffic.

"She is," Jo agreed.

* * *

There was electricity in the air at Yankee Stadium that night. Even Blair, not a sports fan, could feel it.

 _Excitement vibrating… sparkling starlit air I can't seem to draw in long enough to hold. Breathless._

"Nothing like a Red Sox/Yankees game, eh Blair?" Jo greeted her as she entered the private box behind home plate.

"Jo!" David Warner stood and wrapped her in a warm embrace. "I'm so glad you could make it! No trouble getting in, I take it?"

"Nope. Just gave my name at will-call and was escorted directly to your box! Thanks for inviting me, David. I really appreciate it."

"Anything for my beautiful daughter's beautiful girlfriend!" he patted her on the back. "How about a dog and a beer?"

"Sounds good to me!" Jo acknowledged.

"Blair?" David looked at his daughter as he signaled to his assistant.

"You have got to be kidding, Daddy," Blair rolled her eyes.

"Just thought I'd ask," David gave a knowing wink to Jo. "I have smoked oysters being sent over later for some friends from Japan who should be here shortly. But, what's a baseball game without hot dogs and beer?"

"What indeed?" Blair regaled them with another epic eye roll.

"Oh, c'mon, Blair," Jo took her seat beside her. "You don't want a hot dog at the game?"

She turned to Jo and whispered, "Seriously? I'm not in the mood for warm, tubular shaped food after what I had to pick up this afternoon."

"Okay. You got me there. But, you have to love the atmosphere here tonight, right?"

"It does feel kind of exciting," Blair conceded. "Although I'll never understand why this is so important to people."

"The lights, the crowd, the perfect green field, the smell of the grass," Jo took it all in. "How can you not love it?"

"You can smell the grass?" Blair questioned.

"Yeah! Can't you?"

They were interrupted by the arrival of David's Japanese friends. There was a great deal of bowing and smiling as everyone was introduced.

"Play ball!" the umpire called out.

As much as Jo still harbored antipathy for the trappings of the rich, she _loved_ sitting in David's box for baseball games. She had been here at his invitation more than once. The seats were great! You didn't have to get up and wait in line for food as it was delivered to you! There was access to a V.I.P. bathroom! Really no reason to miss any of the game at all. It was simply the best! She had no idea how she would ever survive out in the bleachers again.

"You know, Jo," David bent over his daughter to address her. "I've still got a position waiting for you over at Warner Industries. You just say the word."

"What position would that be, David?"

"You name it! I've had my eye on you for a long time. Even before you moved in with my daughter. I've always been very impressed with you."

"Yeah, well, I dunno'."

"I have an eye for talent, Jo. I think you'd be a great asset to my company."

"Thanks, David. I appreciate it. But, I'm doing important work over here in the Bronx."

"Hey!" Blair interrupted them. "Could you two quit talking shop? I'm trying to watch the game. We've got a runners on the corners with only one out."

"Runners on the corners?" Jo looked at her in amazement.

"Yeah. First and third, that's the corners, right?" Blair asked.

"Right. I'm just surprised _you_ know that!"

"You live with a beer-guzzling heathen long enough, some things are bound to rub off."

"Thanks, Blair," Jo smirked at her.

Suddenly there was a crack of the bat! They all jumped up.

"That ball's gone!" Jo yelled.

There was a collective groan as an outfielder hauled in the drive on the warning track and quickly turned and fired the ball towards the infield. The runner at third scrambled back to the base, tagged up and headed for home. The infielder pivoted and threw a strike to the plate.

"Out!" the umpire yelled as the runner slid home.

"He was safe you blind-as-a-bat buffoon!" Blair hollered as the crowd booed.

"He _was_ out," Jo nudged her as she sat back down. "The runner didn't get a good jump. Plus, that was a hell of a relay!"

"Whatever," Blair shrugged. "Daddy?" she addressed her father. "Didn't you mention something about smoked oysters?"

"Oh yes. Hiro," he turned to his guests, "I have some special food being sent over. It should be arriving any moment."

"Hot dogs?" Hiro asked excitedly.

"Well, um…" Jo watched as David bit his lip in a gesture that was reminiscent of Blair when she was unsure of herself. "Do you _want_ hot dogs?"

"Yes!" Hiro bowed. "American hot dogs and beer at baseball game!"

The Japanese contingent seemed to be in complete agreement as they all smiled and bowed excitedly.

"Hot dogs it is!" David declared as he motioned to his assistant once more. "Just tell Henry what you want on them!"

As David's guests inundated Henry with their hot dog orders, Blair pouted.

"I was really looking forward to smoked oysters, Daddy."

"Don't worry, Princess," he patted her hand. "They're still coming."

"At least the Japanese seem to know what you're supposed to eat at a baseball game," Jo glanced at her skeptically. "Smoked oysters?"

"I can't help it," Blair defended herself. "Ever since Daddy mentioned it, I've been craving them."

"That's weak, Blair."

"Shut up."

As if by design, the hot dogs and smoked oysters arrived all at once.

"Oh, smell these, Jo," Blair cooed.

"I can smell 'em, Blair."

Blair stared at her box of delicious treats. She had been looking forward to tasting them for innings now.

 _Smoky sweet at the tip of my tongue from the ocean's sacred deep_

She sucked an oyster out of its shell.

"So good, Jo," she gave her a suggestive look as a tiny bit of sauce pooled at the side of her mouth and dripped down onto her chin.

Jo reached over and gently wiped the oyster juice off Blair's face with her finger and tasted it.

"Not bad," she grinned. "Give me one of those."

"Help yourself! There's plenty to go around!"

Jo could hardly believe she was sitting in Yankee Stadium sucking down gourmet smoked oysters. _Now I've done it all. But with Blair? Who knows what's next?_

"You know," she mentioned quietly as David chatted up his guests, "if this was really meant to impress the Japanese, they should've been raw."

"I know," Blair moved close to her as she spoke so as not to be overheard. "But neither Daddy nor I can stand them raw, can you?"

"I actually love sushi! But raw oysters? Not so much."

"Your daughter is very beautiful," they heard one of the men behind them announce to David. "Blonde hair like movie star!"

"Well," Blair placed her hand to her chest and feigned embarrassment, although she was obviously pleased.

"And her friend very beautiful, too," another chimed in. "Like rock star!"

Blair eyed her up and down appreciatively.

"You do have a rock star vibe, Jo."

"Aw, c'mon," Jo truly was embarrassed.

"Thanks," she turned to the businessmen behind her.

They smiled and bowed and returned to their hot dogs. Blair and Jo's eyes met as they elbowed each other and giggled.

* * *

"That was a great game, Blair. Thanks for taking me," Jo pulled back the bed sheets and crawled in next to her.

"You're welcome. Long day," Blair yawned. "So, tomorrow's Friday. You want to go out? Do something fun?"

"I can't," Jo responded softly. "I'm in charge of the BYAC table at the street fair on Saturday morning. I told you that. I have to get to bed early tomorrow night."

"Saving the world, as usual," Blair sighed.

"One street corner at a time!" Jo declared.

"You put in a lot of effort, Jo. I just hope it's worth it."

"Hey, of course it's worth it! Gay teens feel alone and isolated. Suicide happens all too often. Plus, AIDS is a huge issue. Kids need to be educated on this. We have to get information out there."

"I know, I know," Blair relented. "I believe in what you do."

"We could go out Saturday night?" Jo ventured.

"We'll see."

"So what do you want to do tonight?" Jo kissed her temple as she asked.

"Read the book?" Blair suggested.

"Is it my turn?"

"I hope so. I'm too tired to read," Blair yawned again.

"Okay. So where were we?" Jo pulled the book from the nightstand. " _Interview With the Vampire_ ," she read the cover.

"What's your favorite part so far?" Blair asked.

"When Claudia starts to figure out what she is and what happened to her. She becomes a woman trapped in a child's body. It so interesting."

"I like this part now," Blair shared. "When they get to Europe. I thought it was so sad when Louis held the lantern over the Mediterranean and longed to see the blue water. _This sea is not your sea:_ so sad. But when he gets to Paris, he falls in love again and feels alive."

Jo flipped to the bookmark as Blair snuggled up next to her.

"They had just arrived at the Vampire Theater, remember?"

Jo began reading where they had left off:

 _And that taste of blood, which I had not enjoyed, had left me all the more uneasy; but I had no time for it. This was no night for killing. This was to be a night of revelations, no matter how it ended. I was certain._

Blair closed her eyes as she listened to Jo read page after page, imagining the scene: the theater, the stage, the vampires, the girl…

 _And now, turning her slowly to the side so that they could all see her serene face, he was lifting her, her back arching as her naked breasts touched his buttons, her pale arms enfolded his neck. She stiffened, cried out as he sank his teeth, and her face was still as the dark theater reverberated with shared passion._

Blair began to drift off as she imagined being a vampire. What would it feel like having that kind of power over life and death? What would it feel like having that kind of sexual power? Would you even care anymore? Blair thought she would, at least for a while. She imagined seducing nubile young women, fixing them with her vampire stare, seducing them with a flick of her wrist. They would disrobe for her without being asked: their bodies hers to do with as she pleased, their naked breasts touching her as she ran her hands over virginal skin… her vampire teeth piercing their necks as they gasped with pleasure.

 _Blood rushing, through burning veins, her heart pounding, I taste her life's essence. Ecstasy!_

Jo glanced down and noticed that Blair had drifted off to sleep. Blair's brilliant smile and expressive brown eyes were two of the things she loved most about her girlfriend's appearance. Yet, when she was asleep, she looked so adorable! Jo loved this, as well. She was like an innocent, beautiful child carried off on Morpheus's wings. She kissed her brow, placed the book on the nightstand, turned out the light, and held her close. She wondered what sweet dreams gave cause for her face to appear so peaceful.

* * *

Blair rolled over on Saturday morning and reached for Jo. She patted an empty bed. _Damn._ She had gotten very used to waking up next to her girlfriend. She particularly didn't like waking up on a weekend morning without her there. They usually made love on Saturday mornings. She had become addicted to Jo's warm body pressing against hers to start the weekend. She wanted sex.

She crawled out of bed and slouched towards the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. She sat at the counter and reached for the phone.

"Antwoine?"

"Yeah, Blair," came the familiar voice of one of her dearest friends.

"You coming tonight?" she yawned.

"I wouldn't miss it!" he chirped gleefully.

"You got everything I asked for?" she sipped her coffee.

"Girl! You know I did! I'm a professional!"

"I don't like it when Jo has to work on weekends," her voice was dreary.

"She's got her responsibilities, Blair."

"But I miss her."

"She is doing Heaven's own work, Missy! Don't you forget that!"

"Gawd, Antwoine, really? On the weekend?"

"The world doesn't stop just because Blair Warner wants to sleep in with her girlfriend. We've been over this."

"I know. Jo's saving the world, yadda, yadda…" Blair rolled her eyes.

"Did you just roll your eyes at me?" Antwoine queried.

Blair looked around the room confused before removing the receiver from her ear and glaring at it.

"How did you know that?" she asked.

"Your tone of voice, Baby. I know you, remember?"

"That's why I love you," Blair couldn't help but smile.

"I love you, too," Antwoine voiced in a soothing tone.

"I'm just kind of nervous about tonight," Blair offered.

"I'm really excited about your new artistic bent," he spoke reassuringly. "You're so talented. Anything you come up with will be great."

"I don't even have it all blocked out, yet," Blair sighed.

"Life's about taking chances. You'll be fine."

"Thanks, Antwoine," Blair rested her head against the receiver. "See you tonight?"

"Count on it!"

As Blair replaced the phone in its wall cradled, she took another sip of coffee and gazed out the back window. It was a bright summer morning, the sun already half way up a cloudless blue sky.

 _Dreamscapes shattered by pounding throbbing exploding light… the sun bursts with a will of its own._

She walked back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. _Why do I feel so nervous? It isn't like I haven't displayed my artwork before?_ But this was different. Completely different.

* * *

Jo walked through the front door in the early evening. She was exhausted. But, she had promised Blair that they would go out. So if that's what Blair wanted, that's what Blair would get.

"I'm home!" she called out.

There was no response.

"Hey, Babe! I'm home!" she called a little louder.

Silence.

 _That's odd._

She bounded up the stairs to the bedroom. There was a single red rose on the bed with a note underneath.

"Blair," Jo smiled as she picked up the rose and inhaled its fragrance. The note was merely an address with Blair's flowery script beneath it: _9 o'clock._

Jo looked at her watch. It was only six. She had time for a shower and a change of clothes. She wanted to look her best for a red rose date with Blair!

Her motorcycle pulled up in front of a rundown nightclub in Greenwich Village. Jo reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the slip of paper with the address on it. _Yep! This is the place!_ She parked her bike around the corner and walked back to the dilapidated venue.

"Open Mike Poetry Night!" a hand lettered sign was posted out front.

" _What the hell does Blair want to meet here for?"_ Jo thought as she shoved the note back into her pocket and entered the ramshackle establishment. As her eyes were adjusting to the darkness inside, she heard her name called out.

"Jo!" Blair hailed her from a small table near the back of the club.

"Hey, Blair!" she quickly crossed the space between them as her girlfriend rose to give her a kiss.

"Antwoine!" Jo was surprised and happy to see him as they hugged.

"Here she is! The patron saint of gay youth in the Bronx!" Antwoine held her tight.

"And Viktor?" Jo nodded at Antwoine's Russian boyfriend. "I'm surprised to find you in a place like this!"

"Russians love poetry!" Viktor stated dramatically as he downed a shot of vodka. "Still does not explain my presence here."

"Well, it's good to see you anyway," Jo smiled as she sat down next to Blair.

"Likewise," he belched.

"Viktor!" Antwoine scolded him.

"What? I enjoy vodka! Americans," Viktor scoffed. "So precious!"

"So, what are we doing here, Blair?" Jo eyed her curiously.

"You said you love the Beat Poets," Blair beamed. "I thought you might like a Beat club!"

"Wow!" Jo looked around. "I guess this is kind of cool."

"Not so fast," Viktor cautioned. "You have not yet heard _poetry_ ," he made quotations signs in the air with his fingers as he rolled his eyes.

"Next up," a distinctly beatnik looking young man announced casually from the stage, "Frankie Mann."

There was polite applause as woman with a shaved head sat in front of the microphone.

 _Rat sucking puss-filled open sores all around me,_

 _I spit toxic waste from black lungs,_

 _The cry of money, money, money hangs from drooping testicles,_

 _I grind beneath shit encrusted boots_

… _into oblivion!_

She exited the stage.

"Huh," Jo tried not to smile.

"Move over Yeats!" Viktor announced loudly. "A new sheriff is in town!"

"Viktor!" Antwoine shushed him.

"C'mon, Jo," Blair stood up. "Let's go to the bar and get you a drink."

As they waited at the bar, Jo's eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness enough for her to notice the artwork on the walls.

"So, Blair," Jo looked at her inquisitively, "Have you hung one of your paintings here?"

"What?" Blair was confused.

"I was just wondering why you would pick this place for a Saturday night outing," Jo explained. "I thought maybe you painted something new and had it displayed here."

"What can I get you ladies?" the bartender asked.

"I'll have a brew, whatever's on tap," Jo replied.

"I'll have a beer," Blair said.

Jo shook her head and smiled.

"I'm just trying to indulge your love of counter culture, Jo. I thought this place might appeal to you," Blair continued.

Jo looked around again. "It does have its charm," she gave a crooked grin.

As they returned to their table another act was announced.

"All the way from Canarsie, please welcome Bruno!"

A large, imposing looking man took the microphone.

 _Little flowers, your heads like flowers, I love you_

 _Seeping through the cracks of concrete, I love you_

 _Stepped on by society, I love you_

 _Still there, little flowers, I love you…_

Viktor placed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, as if in pain, as the poem continued.

 _Little flowers, your head like flowers, I hate you_

 _Seeping through the stone of society's heart, I hate you_

 _Reminding that all is not cracked, I hate you_

 _Still there, little flowers…_

"I, for one, enjoyed that," Antwoine offered as Bruno left the stage.

"It is bullshit!" Viktor argued.

"It was about the industrial nature of society and how Mother Nature, herself, can not be defeated," Antwoine informed him gently.

"Next up," the beatnik host announced lackadaisically, "Delilah Harris."

A young black woman grabbed the mike.

 _The white American construct of society is fucked up!_

 _In your houses watching TV, you're fucked up!_

 _I'm coming for you, you fucked up motherfuckers!_

 _The Revolution will be televised, blood in the streets in living color_

 _Coming to a station near you cause you're all fucked up!_

She threw the microphone down and stomped off.

"That is poetry!" Viktor shouted loudly as he rose and held his glass up high in salute.

"Did you really like it?" Delilah Harris questioned as she passed by him on her way to the bar.

"It had anger!" he slammed his shot glass back down on the table.

"That's what I was going for," she stated. "I wanted to be evocative of Gil Scott-Heron, but more undeviating from the message. I'm just glad someone got it!"

"So you really want my blood to run in the streets?" Jo asked.

"Oh, it's not personal. It's a denunciation of dominant culture and the crisis of commercialism in America and how the media informs and shapes society. The media is the message, you feel me?"

"You did not get this?" Viktor eyed Jo skeptically.

Jo looked at Blair and shook her head.

"I thought it was very well done," Antwoine said.

"Thanks, brother," Delilah fist bumped him. "Thought you might get it."

"It had undeniable anger, Delilah," Blair acknowledged.

"Now is that praise, Blair, or condemnation?" Delilah gazed at her. "Cause I know you're working for your Daddy's company now and he would definitely _not_ be down with this."

"Wait a minute?" Jo was shocked. "You two know each other?"

"Since Columbia," Blair smiled somewhat nervously.

"Columbia?" Jo questioned.

"What?" Delilah glared at her. "A black girl can't go to Columbia?"

"That's not what I meant," Jo backtracked furiously. "It's just that I was with Blair the whole time she was there and I never met you!"

"Oh, see, we were hanging out with the art crowd together," Delilah enlightened.

"You never wanted to hang out with the art crowd, remember?" Blair glanced at Jo apprehensively.

"That probably explains it then," Delilah interjected. "Is this your famous girlfriend, Blair?"

"Jo Polniaczek," Blair made the introduction, "Delilah Harris, a friend of mine from the art crowd at Columbia."

"Pleased to meet you," Jo stood up to shake her hand.

"Pleased to meet you, too," Delilah seemed genuinely interested. "Blair talked a lot about you back in the day. How you were so smart and talented and how you could do anything. How come you didn't tell me how beautiful she is, Blair?"

Blair was starting to feel exposed. _I hope Jo's not going to be mad._ "Guess I wanted to keep her all to myself?" she shrugged at her college friend.

"I can see why," Delilah looked into Jo's eyes intently. "You're from the streets. I can tell."

"She's from the Bronx, Delilah, not the streets," Blair informed.

"Uh-uh. This one's got street tough," she was still holding Jo's hand. "I guess I would want to keep her all to myself, as well."

"Delilah?" Blair glared at her.

"Oh right, sorry. I was on my way to get a drink and meet my friends anyway," she dropped Jo's hand, but looked her up and down as she headed for the bar. "Hey, Blair, we gonna' catch up later, girl!"

"There will be a brief musical interlude in-between Ms. Harris's epic on America," the beatnik announcer had picked up the mike from the floor.

"That's _white_ America," Delilah shouted from the bar.

"And our next poet," he continued unfazed.

As the music began, Jo sat back down.

"Blair?"

"Jo?"

"How come I didn't know about Delilah Harris?"

"I invited you time and again to attend poetry circles and art openings with me. You just never wanted to go."

"I went to poetry readings!" Jo protested.

"Only if it was Allen Ginsberg, Jo! You didn't want to attend student poetry readings or visit student art exhibits! You'd rather work on your bike, as you told me on more that one occasion."

"Yeah, well, I guess that's true enough."

"So, that's how I met Delilah."

"You were hanging out with art students and poets?"

"Are you mad at me, Jo?"

"No, not at all. Why would I be mad?"

"It was no big deal," Blair offered. "We just got coffee sometimes with other art students, that's all."

"But Blair, you weren't an art student at Columbia. You were in Law School."

"I know," Blair fidgeted.

Jo looked at her and contemplated. Did Blair even _want_ to get a Law Degree? Had she really wanted to be an art student the whole time? If so, it was more than just a little bit sad.

"So, Blair," she asked gently, "did you want to be a lawyer or an artist?"

"I set a goal for myself to be a lawyer and I achieved that. It was something I wanted to do. Jo, we've been over this before. But an artist…" she stopped mid-sentence.

Jo gazed at her, curious at her pause.

"An artist is who I am," Blair finally continued.

Jo reached over and grasped her hand on top of the table.

"You're like a mystery to me sometimes, Blair. How can I have known you for so long and still be finding out new things about you?"

"Jo," Blair looked her in the eyes. "You've always known that I'm an artist."

"Yeah, but, Delilah Harris? I had no idea!"

"Delilah's really something, isn't she?"

"The first poet I have heard tonight who speaks truth!" Viktor proclaimed.

"You just liked her poetry because of her prodigious use of the word _fuck_!" Antwoine shook his head.

"Is good American word," Viktor pointed out.

"I gotta' agree with you there," Jo mentioned as they all smiled.

"Another round of drinks?" Antwoine offered.

"I don't know," Jo looked at Blair. "How long are we staying?"

"I think one more round of poetry, okay Jo?"

"Whatever you want, Babe. I guess I owe you a night like this, seeing as how I missed out on so much at Columbia! Who knows? Maybe Ginsberg or the ghost of Kerouac will drop by!" she joked.

At long last, the music was cut-off as the beatnik was once again on the stage.

"Our next poet, Constance Gardner," he announced.

Blair began to rise.

"Where you going, Blair?" Jo asked.

"That's me, Constance Gardner."

"You've got to be kidding me?" Jo laughed. "Constance Gardner?"

"Nope," Antwoine rose with her as they donned French berets and headed for the stage. Jo hadn't noticed before, but both were wearing identical striped shirts. _How could I have missed that?_

Viktor approached the light technician.

"You move now," he breathed menacingly. The kid took one look at him and did not argue, surrendering his position. The stage was suddenly bathed in blue as Viktor flipped a filter over the fill light. He shone the key light on Blair, narrowing it on her face, which was, for the moment, turned down towards the floor. She sat on the stool with her head bowed, so that only the top of her beret could be seen. Antwoine picked up a pair of bongo drums he had stashed on the stage, sat crossed leg on the floor and, awash in blue, began to beat out a slow, staccato rhythm. Blair dramatically reached up and grabbed the microphone without moving her head. She looked up slowly, her beautiful face gradually lit by the spot light.

Jo was mesmerized as she began her poem.

 _Lights pulsating, cascading alternating flashing,_

 _Mystery slides hidden wrapped in dimensions of plain sight,_

 _Curvy, lithe, overlapping colors folding into a winding river that bursts into lavender, the essence of the flower_

 _Excitement vibrating_

 _Sparkling starlit air I can't seem to draw in long enough to hold. Breathless._

 _Breathless._

 _Smoky sweet at the tip of my tongue from the ocean's sacred deep_

 _Blood rushing, burning veins, heart pounding_

 _I taste her life's essence._

 _Ecstasy!_

 _Dreamscapes shattered by pounding throbbing exploding light_

 _The sun bursts forth with a will of its own._

 _Revelation, elation, bliss, rapture, thrill, joy_

 _Ecstasy_

 _Jo! Jo! Jo!_

Antwoine finished his bongo playing with an inspired flourish as the room went silent. Suddenly there was an enthusiastic round of applause as Blair smiled sweetly in the spotlight.

Jo couldn't move. Her thoughts were frozen. As Blair gave her an adorable grin from the stage, she felt her entire being melt into a torrent of pure joy. She was surrounded by golden light. The sun and stars existed merely to shine upon her. What had she ever done to merit a moment like this? To have her name called out in a passionate poem? What had she ever done to be deserving of someone as wonderful as Blair? _Wait a minute._ Something occurred to her. _Was that poem about…?_

"Not bad, huh?" Victor nudged her from behind, jolting her from her thoughts.

Blair jumped off the stage and bounded up to her breathlessly.

"So? What did you think?"

"Blair I, uh…" Jo rose to meet her.

"It's the sex poem you asked me write. I tried to write it in the style of the Beat Poets."

"Blair, it was uh…"

"I think she liked it," Antwoine grinned as he placed his bongos on the table. "She's speechless."

"I am," Jo conceded. "Blair?" she looked at her wonderingly.

"What, Jo?"

"That was for me? About me?"

"Of course it was, silly!"

"How did you come up with that?"

"I don't know. Things just started occurring to me once you suggested that I do it."

"I didn't know you wrote poetry."

"Oh. I don't. I mean, like everybody, I've dabbled a little."

"No, Blair. Not _everybody_ dabbles a little."

"Yeah, well anyway, I'm not a poet, so don't go getting any ideas."

"Hey, I really liked your poem," a young man they didn't know interrupted them.

"Oh, thank you," Blair was polite.

"That Joe person is one lucky fellow," he winked at her.

"Thanks," Jo glared at him menacingly. "I know I am!"

"Oh! Oh!" he stammered. "I see, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it."

"Yeah? Beat it," Jo jerked her head at him.

"Jo…" Blair nudged her playfully.

"What?" Jo glanced at her. "He was hitting on you!"

"Maybe he just really liked my poem, Jo."

"Uh, he was hitting on you. Besides, I didn't like the way he winked at you."

"You don't think my poem was good enough to warrant an unsolicited appreciation?"

"I think there were elements to your poem he appreciated a little too much." Jo gave her a reproachful look.

"Did you think it was too personal, Jo?"

"There were extremely personal elements to it," Jo felt herself blush a little. "But, it was very artistic, wrapped in the Beat Poet style, erotic without being graphic."

"You really liked it?"

"Blair?"

"Yeah?"

"I thought it was beautiful."

"Really, Jo?"

"Really, Blair," she moved close so that she could whisper in her ear. "I can't wait to get home so you can read it to me again, in private, this time. Maybe engage in some vigorous literary criticism?"

"It makes me so happy you liked it! It was my first poem!"

Jo took her hand and gazed lovingly into her eyes.

"You never stop surprising me, Blair."


End file.
